The Man in the Trenchcoat
by elliequickfall
Summary: 3 years after the Fall, a new tenant moves into 221B Baker Street, but she's not alone... "S-S-Sherlock Holmes?", I stuttered. "Yes," he replied with great irritation,"Now who the devil are you?"
1. Chapter 1

The brass doorknocker of 221B Baker Street glistened in the July sun on the Saturday morning that would change my life. I'd been looking for a flat for some months; and finally, as if out of the blue, this place had popped up, the address that had been in the news so much three years previously but these days was just as inconspicuous as the next terrace. Apparently, money for the landlady was tight, so she and the former tenant had agreed that maybe it was time to let the place fall into a fresh face's hands. It was still furnished- apparently the previous tenant had insisted that his former flatmate shouldn't totally be forgotten- but thickly covered in dust, as my new landlady bashfully informed me.

"I'm just like John, you see," Mrs Hudson smiled sadly as she led me up the stairs, "I can't bear to face it. Lives a few streets away now, he does. We meet for dinner in Angelo's every Thursday."

There was a short pause, before I cautiously asked the question burning in my mind. "Mrs Hudson, how did you meet Sherlock Holmes?"

Sighing heavily she replied, "It was during my husband's court case. He helped me when Mr Hudson found himself sentenced to death in Florida."

"Mr Holmes was able to prevent your husband's death sentence?" By this point, we'd reached the entrance to the flat itself.

"No, my dear girl," Mrs Hudson once again found her face forming into that sad smile, "He ensured it." Once again, there was a slight pause, then she turned to me with a curious look on her face. "You don't think he was a fraud, then? Most of the world seems to, but you... You seem different."

I shrugged sheepishly. "I've always found it hard to believe that a man who seemed to be responsible for so much good in the world could turn out to be a fraud. It just doesn't seem... right."

"You're not the only one that thinks that way, you know," Mrs Hudson murmured, "There's a whole group of them. They call themselves Sherlockians- people who just can't accept that he wasn't a genius. Just after..." She paused, clearly searching for the right words, "Just after it happened, they went around putting up posters, all of those "Believe in Sherlock" flyers that were everywhere. They've calmed down a bit now, but sometimes I still see the odd mysterious figure, just gazing at this place..." Her eyes filled with tears. "I just wish that more people thought the way that they do."

Smiling, I placed a comforting hand on her arm as I replied, "So do I."

It was in that moment that I knew I'd gained Mrs Hudson's approval. She slowly smiled, pushed open the door to the living room of the flat and waved me in, apologising for the mess as we walked in together. And indeed, it was a mess; books everywhere, what appeared to be a violin lying on a shelf in the corner, and a (hopefully but probably not artificial) human skull perched on the edge of the mantelpiece. As promised, everything was cloaked in a thick layer of dust, untouched for days, weeks and months that had slowly accumulated into years.

This was certainly an uninhabitable spot for most people; it still had the echoes of another person and another life contained within its walls, an echo that would resound for at least Mrs Hudson and Dr Watson's lifetimes, and there was nothing I could do to change that. I certainly couldn't remove Sherlock's things- it would break Mrs Hudson's heart. Still, as soon as I walked into that room I felt an indescribable pull to it; this flat, Sherlock Holmes' former flat, was to become my home, and there was nothing I could do about it. Call it fate, call it insanity, call it whatever you want- but I knew. This was my home now. So, without hesitation, I gave Mrs Hudson her deposit and rushed to move in my own belongings.

It didn't take a lot of consideration to decide that it was best to leave the late Mr Holmes' possessions as they were- not only would it preserve his memory, but most of the old experiments were either encrusted in various mixtures of chemicals or too unbelievably dirty to touch. For the first few weeks, I pretty much lived in the room that had once belonged to Dr Watson, making occasional journeys into the living room to examine a book or gaze out of the window into bustling Baker Street. I liked how everything seemed to just flow- the same cars and vans passed every day, the same summer sun burned down on the same battered old buildings, the same people strolled past time and time again. It reminded me of the mundane routine of my own life, private tutor to the same spoiled children of MPs and businessman, seeing the same mansions and same old schemes of work each and every day. The work, and most of my pupils, may have been tiresome, but it was something to do at least; now, the summer holidays had started, and I was bored. Very bored.

Hence why, as the days dragged on and the July sun beat down hotter than ever, I found myself sat in front of that window most mornings, drinking the tea that Mrs Hudson often found herself making for me ("Not your housekeeper!") and pondering what to do to amuse myself that day. For a while, the window offered nothing- I got used to seeing the same milkman doing his rounds and lingering for just a little bit too long in the doorway just across the road, the same scrawny teenager delivering the newspapers and looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else, and the same toothless old man having intimate conversations with a bus stop which he seemed to think was his wife. Life went on, and I got used to watching these characters continue with their daily lives.

I had my own life of course; old friends to go to coffee with, the occasional old boyfriend to have a short-lived reunion with, and of course the wonderful Mrs Hudson as company- but somehow, I always found myself back at that window, looking, watching, searching. I didn't exactly know what-or who- I was looking for, not consciously anyway, but suddenly, after three weeks of living in Baker Street, it presented itself to me. Or rather, _he_ presented himself to me; the man in the woollen trench-coat. The man who would change my life.

To this day, I still can't work out why anybody would casually stroll out into a summer's day wearing a coat that belonged in the depths of Russia and not expect to be noticed, but he did it, and I noticed him. Collar turned up high, as if against some imaginary gust of wind, arms folded tightly across his slender body, and some kind of hood shielding his face; this man exuded mystery and suspicion. Somehow, I almost felt like I recognised him; but being new to the area, I disregarded this immediately, and just assumed that he was another of the eccentric lunatics that resided around here. In fact, I even grouped him to be in league with Mr I'm-Married-To-A-Bus-Stop; maybe it was his son? He seemed unhinged enough...

But as the days passed, and the man in the trench-coat kept on appearing, I could tell that something was different about this man. Everybody that usually passed my window when I was doing my usual gaze of solitude seemed immersed in their own lives, just carrying on and living, but this man seemed bizarrely interested in my life; or rather, the life of my flat. Even beneath his heavily cloaked face I could tell that there was a piercing gaze under there that was directed at my very window- he was clearly very interested in 221B Baker Street.

You would think that this would unnerve me; a perfect stranger simply standing there, watching me. But I figured that I knew his type- he was a Sherlockian, one of the people that Mrs Hudson had told me about on my very first day at the flat. He was simply paying homage to his hero, by standing here and staring, every single day.

And it was every single day, every day for a week, that this man appeared- he would stay for at least two or three hours, simply watching, before turning and casually walking on as if nothing had ever happened and as if nothing had caught his interest. But then one day, it stopped; when I made my usual morning trip to the window, all that greeted me was the milkman and the other maniacs, but no man in the trench-coat. A strange sinking feeling overcame me- it was almost as if I had wanted him to be there, maybe to solve the mystery of exactly who he was and why he had chosen to show his support for Sherlock Holmes at this particular time. I mean, the man had been dead for over three years; why suddenly mourn him now? Questions rumbled around my mind for the rest of the day, and I found myself retiring to bed earlier than usual and falling into an unsettled sleep.

It was the creak of the bedroom door that woke me up. My immediate fear was not for me, but for Mrs Hudson; surely she could be the only person with the key to the flat, and surely she would only wake me if something was amiss. But then a low, masculine voice rumbled, "John?", and I became paralysed with fear. There was a dead man walking in my bedroom.

His footsteps slowly creaked closer and closer towards the bed, and I simply lay there, my heart beating with the rhythm of a drum, unsure of what to do and unsure of what was happening- was he a ghost? There had been so many witnesses to him jumping off the roof of the hospital- how could he not be dead? And was it even him? Was it really the famous Sherlock Holmes, or was I in graver danger than I thought?

Eventually, the figure reached my bed, and I blinked back in blindness as a torch shone brightly directly in my face. Sitting up in shock, I saw a mask of surprise and slight irritation settle over the intruder's pale face, and watched as he stepped back and brushed some unruly curls out of his piercing blue eyes, as if this would help him to comprehend the situation.

"S-S-Sherlock Holmes?", I stuttered.

"Yes," he responded with great irritation, "Now who the devil are you?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Well?" the great Sherlock Holmes demanded as he loomed over my bed, "Who are you? Why are you here?" Once again, I found that penetrating gaze scanning my face. It was definitely him; there was no mistaking that lean figure, the unruly curls with a slight tinge of auburn like the sky of an autumn sunrise and of course the famous trench-coat. But there was something different about this man that left me lost for words; more of a rough diamond than a prize crown jewel, there was a hint of weariness in his eyes, and a clear disappointment that the face he was looking down on was not the one he wanted to see.

After regaining my composure- the sight of this man in my bedroom had left me slightly breathless- I stammered, "I… I…" I swallowed nervously- this news would not be easy for him, I was sure- "I live here. I'm the new tenant. I came to look at it about a month ago, and Mrs Hudson…"

"Mrs Hudson!", Sherlock exclaimed, "Is she alright? The last time I saw her, things were a little…" His face darkened, "… A little dangerous."

"Mrs Hudson seems quite well, if a little melancholy. She thinks you're dead…" Looking up into his face, I murmured in disbelief, "The whole world thinks you're dead."

"Yes, well, any moron can deduce that I'm not dead," he scoffed, "And for that reason I think I might like my flat back! You can be gone by the morning! Good night!" With a condescending smile he began to move towards the open door, but turned around with a startled expression when I defiantly replied, "I'm not going anywhere."

He stepped forward a few paces. "I'm sorry? Do you not understand?" He scanned the room, before glaring straight at me and insisting, "This is _my _flat. That is my violin lying on the shelf of the living room, those are my experiments lying across the floor, and that is my favourite skull resting on the mantelpiece." He smiled to himself, gleefully whispered "I've missed that skull," and then continued to defeat my hopes of ever remaining at 221B Baker Street. "Quite frankly, I can't understand why John would allow this place to fall into anybody else's hands. Surely my memory means something to him… So, I think everybody would fare a lot better if I just move straight back in!" He glanced at me, waiting for some attempt that I might make to outwit him, but clearly not expecting it to happen.

I waited for a moment, trying to think of some kind of argument that he wouldn't scoff at or immediately dismiss, but then had a realisation. "Mr Holmes-"

"Please, call me Sherlock," he interjected, before waving to indicate that I should carry on.

"Fine, SHERLOCK. You have been supposedly 'dead' for the past three years- quite frankly I can't understand just how you're actually alive- so consider this. How do you think Mrs Hudson would react if she pottered up here one morning expecting to see me here sipping my cup of tea, but instead found a dead man sitting in the armchair?" I smiled wryly. "You can't just throw me out and replace me; surely a man was as impressive a mind as you can see that. It would cause too much of a shock wave if you just suddenly reappeared, and the press would have a field day. You're going to need to find someone who can help you ease yourself back into society slowly, it's the only way that you can 'reappear' and not cause TOO much of a stir…"

He pondered this for a moment, before briskly stating, "Yes, well, I knew that all along of course. I just wanted to test your strength of character, and your strong will has impressed me. I can tell that you don't want to leave this place, so I guess I can allow you to stay."

"How gracious of you," I bit back, rolling my eyes at the tenacity of this man. I mean, he couldn't really expect to just waltz in here after three years of being apparently very dead and suddenly take over my life! He had forfeited his right to own this place when he had disappeared and left it behind. "I'll leave your things alone. You can come and collect them when you want."

However, the impenetrable Mr Holmes didn't appear to have heard anything that I'd said. He spend a moment stood incredibly still, as if he had retreated into some inner corner of his mind, and then announced, "I'll have to stay here as well, of course. It's the only option."

My heart skipped a beat, and then another, and then another. Eventually, his words settled in my mind, and I realised that I was, most likely, going to have to flat share with this inconveniently handsome sociopath. After all, where else could he go? This had been his home before he dallied off to goodness knows where, and he didn't seem the type to have a large circle of friends to fall back on. Plus, I was the only person- as far as I knew- who even knew Sherlock was alive. It looked like I'd sealed my fate when I'd suggested that he find someone to help him readjust to life here; however, I hadn't anticipated it to be me! This man was a perfect stranger!

"You were right," he continued, "When you said that I'd need help easing myself back into society. The only people that even know I'm alive are you and Mycroft, so-"

"Well, why don't you ask this Mycroft for help them? He's probably know you for a lot longer than I have, unless you make a habit of barging into people's bedrooms in the middle of the night... What's the matter?"

Sherlock's face had darkened to the extent that it practically matched the night sky outside. He looked like he was one wrong word away from murder, and that word, I soon learned, was 'Mycroft'...

"Me. Ask Mycroft. For help?" The detective said these words as if they were suggesting that he rip out his own eyeballs and repeatedly trample them into oblivion. Clearly, this Mycroft and he weren't exactly on the best, so I guessed that it was time to quickly resolve the situation.

"Of course, I'm sure I'd be able to accommodate you here," I blurted out, "But how will we tell Mrs Hudson? I'm sure she'll be pleased to see you, she describes you like a saint, but I'm pretty sure her nerves will take a hammering if you just walk in there..."

"Yes." Sherlock shot a stony look my way. "I'll think of something. The sooner I reveal myself, the better I suppose. And of course, there's John..." His gaze softened considerably. "I can't live here without having him to support me."

"Well, we'll think of something. But," I glanced at the clock; it was 3am, "Can we please continue this conversation at a more sociable hour? I can make your bed up for you if you want..."

"No. I need to think. You may hear me talking out loud during the night; my skull and I have a lot to catch up on."

Not quite knowing how to respond to this, I simply returned to my bed and buried myself in the covers. By this point, I would have been quite glad to return to what I imagined would be some very bizarre dreams; however, I was soon conscious that Sherlock was still stood there, watching me. I reluctantly sat up and turned to him with eyebrows raised in expectation.

"I've only just met you." He seemed slightly unsure about something, a feeling that I imagined was quite alien to him.

"...Congratulations. You really are a master detective. Is that all?"

"I've only just met you," he repeated, "And I'm a man who supposedly committed suicide in a fit of shame. Why aren't you terrified? Why don't you assume me to be a fraud?"

Smiling dryly, I replied, "You? A fraud? Why, any moron could deduce that you're not."

And, as Sherlock Holmes shut the door after leaving the strangest situation known to man, I could almost swear that he had a smile on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Hi guys! Thanks for all of the positive reviews so far, as I'm sure you've noticed this is my first ever fanfic so I'm so grateful for the support! :) **_

_**Here's Chapter 3, I'm going to try to get Chapter 4 on tomorrow but after that you'll have to wait a week for the next instalment! I'm going away and won't have access to the Internet... But I'll try to make Chapter 5 worth the wait! :D**_

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><p>At approximately 6.23am on the morning after Sherlock Holmes invited me into his life, I became acutely aware of how much of a pain in the rear end he was likely to be. Instead of being awoken to the sound of sweetly singing birds, or the patter of Mrs Hudson's footsteps as she pottered around downstairs, I shot awake at the crack of dawn to the sound of somebody murdering a kitten. Or at least, that's what it sounded like; the screeching and shrieking that was coming from the living room could never originate from anything remotely human! For a moment, I panicked; could I have some kind of deranged intruder in my home? But then the events of the previous night came back to me, and I realised that yes, I did indeed have a deranged intruder in my home, and it sounded like he was reacquainting himself with his long-neglected violin.<p>

At stupid-o-clock in the morning.

As I barged into the room, Sherlock glanced up in confusion; then, after giving me a brief look over, his face settled as he seemed to remember just who this disgruntled woman stood in his living room was. "Oh, you're awake," he commented in a bored voice, "I was beginning to wonder if I'd imagined you."

After this rude awakening, I'd been contemplating myself whether this man was real or in fact some kind of demented nightmare sent to torture me, but settling on the fact that he was a combination of the two I hissed, "Sherlock. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? IT'S HALF PAST SIX IN THE MORNING!"

"Thirty-four minutes past six, actually," he replied cheerfully, "And I think that it's blatantly obvious what I'm doing." He waved the bow of his violin at me. "It seems that nobody chose to tune my violin while I was away!"

"Perhaps that's because EVERYBODY THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD," I yelled, "AND QUITE FRANKLY, I'M BEGINNING TO WISH THEY WERE RIGHT!" This man was infuriating. He was maddening. He was exasperating. And yet... He was devastatingly handsome in the morning light that was streaming in through the window.

God damn it, staying angry at him was impossible.

Arching an eyebrow slightly, Sherlock coolly replied, "Now, now. There's no need to raise your voice. It might attract the attention of..."

At that very second, a panicked rapping noise sounded on the door to the flat. "Is everything all right in there, dear? I heard shouting..."

"Mrs Hudson!" I whispered.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock gravely confirmed, "And she's not going to go away until you open that door."

I began to dash around the flat in a frenzy. "Is there anywhere for you to hide?" I shrieked. "What can we do? She'll be so shocked to find you in here like this..."

"Yes," Sherlock added seriously, "But she's going to have to find out somehow." After a brief pause, he looked me straight in the eyes- cue involuntary heartbeat fluctuations- and said, "I think it's time we let her in. I'll wait in the kitchen."

"But... But..." My protestations were useless. Sherlock was waiting in the kitchen, leaning that tall figure against a work surface and looking unmistakeably god-like, and I was left standing in front of a door that was likely to be forcibly broken down if I didn't open it within the next ten seconds.

Slowly, cautiously, I unlocked the door and creaked it open. Mrs Hudson was stood, a panicked expression frozen on her face, clutching some kind of large frying pan in both of her hands. Seeing that my confused gaze was directed at her inventive choice of weapon, she sheepishly shrugged; "It was the closest thing to me at the time! Now will you tell me what on earth is going on? Why were you shouting?" As I let her in, she surveyed the flat, and looked at me curiously as she murmured, "Sherlock's violin's been moved..." Glancing around again, her gaze got caught on the coat tossed carelessly over the back of the chair. A trenchcoat. THE trenchcoat.

Dumbfounded, Mrs Hudson cast a stricken look at me as she stuttered, "It can't be... He can't be..."

"I am." That deep voice reverberated throughout 221B Baker Street, followed by a tremendous crash as Mrs Hudson's frying pan fell uselessly to the ground. Her eyes wide and her mouth even wider, she carefully approached Sherlock, who was now stood in the doorway to the kitchen, eventually stopping within two inches of his tall frame, her nose level with his broad chest. Timdily raising a hand to his face, she brushed her fingertips against those impossibly high cheekbones, as if to determine Sherlock's reality, then, after a few heart-stopping seconds, her face crumpled and she burst into elated tears.

For all of his sociopathic tendencies, Sherlock certainly knew the best way to deal with this situation- he pulled Mrs Hudson into a close embrace, his eyes closed in contentment, eventually pulling away and steadying his hands on her shoulders. "I'm back, Mrs Hudson,"

he smiled, "Looks like you're promoted back to your previous position of housekeeper!"

"I," Mrs Hudson choked with laughter through her waterfall of tears, "Am NOT your housekeeper." But she said it with affection, and after a few minutes more of this joyful reunion she turned to me.

"Was this you?" she said, her eyes still glistening with tears. "Did you bring him back?"

"No," I smiled, before Sherlock interjected, "However, this lovely new tenant of yours has graciously agreed to help me adjust to life back here in Baker Street." Once again, my heart began to unexpectedly flutter. He had called me lovely! Hardly the greatest compliment in the world, but still... No. There were more pressing matters at hand than my ridiculous attraction to this man. "As you can imagine," he continued, "It will be somewhat hard to explain to the world the sudden reappearance of a man who embroiled himself in a shame-filled fake suicide." He looked at me grimly.

"But.. But..." Mrs Hudson had just about regained her composure, but was still obviously struggling with something. "How _are _you alive, Sherlock? How can it be possible? Not that I'm not happy," she insisted, "But still... How? Why?"

"That, Mrs Hudson, is a tale for another day." Sherlock meandered towards the window, surveying the summer's day that was blossoming outside. "Right now, we have much to discuss regarding..." He sighed heavily. "Regarding John. He must be informed that I'm safe and well. These three years away from him have been the hardest of my life..." Shadows of shame and sadness clouded the detective's face. "I only hope he'll forgive me."

"Sherlock, since that day three years ago I've seen John every single week." Mrs Hudson spoke quietly, with great sincerity. "And trust me, not a week has gone by when he hasn't told me just how much he misses you."

"In that case," Sherlock said, "You need to tell me where I can find him. And you," he turned to me, "Are going to help me formulate a way to introduce myself back into his life without causing him too much pain. I'm not too good with people," he shrugged, "So I'd probably do more harm than good. You helped with Mrs Hudson here, and I feel it best if you help with John. Will you?" His eyes contained more than a hint of desperation.

I nodded. "Of course."

"In that case," Sherlock spoke firmly, "Let us formulate a plan. Now, Mrs Hudson..." He cast a puppy-eyed gaze in her direction.

Rolling her eyes, Mrs Hudson sighed, "I'll make some tea."

And from the smile fixed on Sherlock's face, he seemed fairly sure that life was going to slowly return to normal.

How wrong he was.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hi guys! Sorry it's taken so long to update the story, oh the joys of having no Internet for a week... hope you enjoy this chapter! **_

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><p>Sat surreptitiously in shades and a smart black dress, I kept a watchful eye on the flat of John Watson, waiting for the unsuspecting doctor to return. After being welcomed back so joyfully and completely into Mrs Hudson's life, Sherlock had thought it prudent to make his way back into John's as soon as possible; and as close as these two men had clearly been three years ago, the usually calm and collected detective was visibly nervous about this particular reunion. His breathing was shallow, his perfectly sculpted face even more deathly pale than usual, and his hands sat as a twisted mess in his lap.<p>

I had a strange compulsion to reach out and clasp those hands in my own, just to try to reassure him, and take that pained expression from his face; however, I sensed that if I did so, I would probably be thrown out of this very official-looking, very expensive car. Undoubtedly, this vehicle belonged to the mysterious Mycroft, who, through eavesdropping on Mrs Hudson and Sherlock's conversations, I had judged to be the detective's brother; they seemed to have been able to set aside their feud for the purpose of contacting John. The fact that Sherlock would even consider this was a testament to just how much Dr Watson meant to him.

"He's there."

Sherlock's blunt assertion came after three tedious hours of silence had enveloped the car. Sure enough, a man of average height with sandy brown hair was slowly perusing the pavement leading up to what we had learned, thanks to Mrs Hudson, was his flat. As he fumbled for his keys, a concentrated expression forming on his face, a clear view of his face communicated to the world the true extent of his torment; his eyes were hollow, dead and constantly scanning around as if searching for a face that they craved to see, his shoulders were slumped and tired, and even in the suit and stethoscope typical of a doctor he looked haggard, worn and exhausted. It was clear for all to see that Dr Watson was a broken man.

I glanced over to determine Sherlock's reaction to this sighting of his closest friend; his pain and self-blame were evident. The usually calm, cool and collected detective was in anguish; this was completely different to his reunion with Mrs Hudson. He ran a slender hand through his mass of curls with a discontented motion, and for one fractured moment I even swore that a hint of a repentant tear glistened in the crook of one of those deep blue eyes, this being the first real show of emotion that I had seen from Sherlock. But then the moment passed, and Sherlock hurriedly barked out, "I guess it's time to put the plan in motion."

I slowly opened the car door. As I placed one high-heeled foot onto the bone-dry August pavement, my heart fluttered nervously- this truly was a daunting task that I had been assigned. I was to claim that I had intelligence regarding the death of Sherlock Holmes, a feat that was apparently only achievable if I was to impersonate a colleague of Mycroft (a challenge in itself, since all I knew about the man was that he had once stolen his younger brother's teddy bear, and had uncommonly good taste in umbrellas).

Hopefully, Dr Watson would be willing to hear me out- neither Mrs Hudson or Sherlock seemed to think that he was the type who would turf me out onto the street- and assuming he was, I would use my "skills in tact and diplomacy" (which Sherlock had unabashedly thrust upon me) to explain the situation, after which, bar some kind of explosion of anger on Watson's part, Sherlock would make his grand entrance after three years of heart-wrenching separation, and the world's greatest partnership would be finally reunited. "If he wants to know me, of course," Sherlock kept muttering anxiously, but I think we both knew that this was not a thought to be dwelled upon. Instead, it was time to return to the task at hand.

Hand still shaking with the inescapable tremors of nerves, I rapped clearly on the door three times. As I had anticipated, Dr Watson answered the door almost immediately- after all, he himself had only just returned home. He had probably been hoping for a quiet afternoon, tired after a busy day's work at the surgery, ready to rest with a comforting cup of coffee, and here I was about to turn his life upside down with that one name that would mean so much.

"Dr Watson?" A pair of sorrowful eyes and a wearied expression greeted me. His clear sadness broke my heart; but almost immediately, the pieces whizzed back together as I remembered that I was the person who could change that. I had the power to make him happy again, a power that sent a flood of confidence rushing through my veins.

"Yes," he replied quietly, "Who are-"

I interrupted him, swiftly chipping in with "I'm a friend of Mycroft's." His eyes widened in a mixture of alarm and wonder.

"M-m-mycroft?" he gasped, "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time. About two and a half years, in fact..." Glancing around him, he added, "You'd better come in."

"So," I enquired firmly, "You've had no contact at all with Mycroft for two and a half years, did you say?"

"No," he replied, "Not since he got me the job at the surgery... Why, has he told you differently?" He looked up at me sharply; in these heels, I was a good three inches taller than him. As if this height gave me new-found assertiveness, I boldly stated, "He's been watching you." I didn't know if this was true; however, my limited knowledge of Mycroft suggested that it was a likely possibility. "He has information for you," I added as we sat down on his battered sofa in a cosy living room.

There was a pregnant pause. After a few moments, Dr Watson cautiously allowed his gaze to rise to meet mine. "What kind of information?"

I took a deep breath. "Information about... About the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes."

Dr Watson scoffed. "I can tell you his whereabouts," he bitterly murmured, "He's in a grave I the cemetery down the road. I should know," his eyes clouded with moisture, "I go there often enough."

"Dr Watson," I began carefully, "It's not going to be easy for you to hear this, but..." I sighed heavily. "Sherlock Holmes... He's not..."

I didn't get a chance to finish my sentence. Dr Watson had sprung up from his seat, hands shaking and head clearly pounding, and demanded, "Where is he? He's alive, isn't he? Tell me where he is!" He dragged me to my feet, and again repeated with a tone of great urgency, "Tell me where he is!"

"You never where the calmest of people, were you?" Simultaneously, John and I spun around to see Sherlock standing tearfully in the doorway, clutching his two hands together in a tight knit ball, waiting for the reaction of his best friend.

"Sher...Sherlock..." John was flabbergasted. "How?"

A small smile crept across Sherlock's face. "My last miracle. Remember?"

Within seconds, the two men were entangled in a brotherly embrace, with Sherlock stood silently and John erupting with a mixture of tears and laughter. After a couple of minutes, John hastily pulled back from the hug and a split second later his fist glanced sharply across Sherlock's cheek.

"What was that for?" Sherlock demanded.

"Don't ever go suicidal on me again!" John roared. A minute's silence passed after this exchange, before the whole room, including me, once again erupted into raptures of laughter. It was as if not one but two men had returned from the dead; Sherlock Holmes, and the true, happy John Watson. It was a sight of pure, unadulterated joy that will remain with me until my dying day.

"So," John said pensively as he turned around to face me, "Who exactly are you?"

I explained my situation and how Sherlock and I had met, adding sincere apologies for taking over his residence at Baker Street.

"Don't apologise," John began, before Sherlock interrupted him. A worried expression took over the detective's face as he said, "It's probably best that you don't return to Baker Street, John. It might attract the attention of a rather unwanted spectator." His voice took a sinister tone, as he quietly added, "Moriarty had a friend. That's why it's taken me so long to return... I had to make sure the coast was clear..."

"I'm sorry," I interjected, feeling like a prize fool, "But who on earth is Moriarty?"

Sherlock and John exchanged glances, before the former grimly stated, "We have a lot to fill you in on."

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><p>Several hours and innumerable cups of tea later, Sherlock and John told me the story of their adventures before the detective's supposed death. One part of Sherlock's tale remained a mystery- just how he managed to survive that fall- but he informed John and I that "Now is not the time for such unimportant concerns."<p>

"After I faked my own death," Sherlock drawled with an inappropriately casual tone, "Mycroft- yes, he was in on it," he clarified, seeing John's look of surprise, "Not something I'm proud of let me assure you- Mycroft sent me off to Romania, somewhere that considered a safe hiding place. He told me that I still had enemies out there, that the water wasn't safe, and that I should stay away to keep you and myself protected. I don't know who this ally of our friend Jim is; but it's another reason for me to keep a low profile even now." Sherlock glanced at me. "You can help me with that."

John, looking concerned about the knowledge he had just acquired, wondered, "But who could still see you as a threat? Moriarty denounced you to the world as a fraud and a nobody. Not that I ever believed all of that nonsense of course," a comment which received a gratifying smile from Sherlock.

"Maybe," I volunteered, "A friend of Moriarty's wants revenge over his death? He can't have been a total loner, he must have had SOMEBODY to assist him..."

Nodding, Sherlock admitted, "That could be a plausible idea. We just need to find out who it is, and where they're hiding..."

At this point, a low buzzing noise began to sound. "Ah," John groaned, "It's my boss, Dr Moran. Wants to know where my latest stack of paperwork's got to... I told him I'd need an extended deadline... Typical Sebastian, forgets everything..."

"Yes," Sherlock said brightly, "I hope you enjoy your job! I bullied Mycroft into getting you the best one possible... I even convinced him to intervene so that Lestrade could keep his job..."

"That was you?" John exclaimed, "You have no idea how thankful Greg will be! Sergeant Donovan lost hers though," he smiled wryly, "Not that I'm too concerned about that..." A knowing look from Sherlock suggested that he'd had a hand in that particular dismissal as well as everything else.

"Well," Sherlock sighed, stretching his legs as he stood up, "We'd best be leaving you to your paperwork, John." Seeing John's reluctant expression, he joked, "Don't worry, I won't have disappeared by the morning."

"You'd better bloody not disappear again, Sherlock Holmes," John warned, "Or I might have to fish out that old harpoon of yours..."

Sherlock laughed, then all fell silent as the three of us smiled contentedly.

"It was nice to meet you," John said warmly to me as I passed through the front door, and as I returned his compliment I felt a strange sense of belonging, like I'd finally found my place in the world. Turning around, I saw Sherlock and John stood in the doorway, embracing once again.

And with a relieved smile, Dr John Watson looked up into his best friend's face and sincerely said, "It's good to have you back, Sherlock."

I couldn't have agreed more.


	5. Chapter 5

It's strange how much can change in so little time, and all thanks to one person. Take my life, for example. In the first few weeks of my moving into Baker Street, I used to spend the majority of my days alone, sat by the window, watching people's lives go by but not really knowing what to do with my own. Now, just a month later, my window had to be kept shut, because the raucous laughter often reverberating around the flat was considered by Sherlock to pose a risk of attracting too much attention if left for the world to hear. It was safe to say that I was no longer lonely; there wasn't a minute of my life in which I wasn't surrounded by Sherlock, John and Mrs Hudson, the three people I could now truly call my friends.

It took a while, but John gradually adjusted to having Sherlock back in his life. For the first few weeks, he took to gazing at Sherlock for long periods of time, as if worried that one blink would send the detective back to his grave, but eventually things became more relaxed. When he wasn't at the surgery, working long hours for Dr Moran, John was here at Baker Street, filling Sherlock in on life in the world outside the flat. Sherlock himself was still reluctant to leave the flat, not because he feared that people may be shocked that he had magically come back to life, but because he feared that one wrong move might end his life for good this time. The more we considered it, the more that it seemed that it was unlikely that Moriarty was working alone; after all, it wasn't just Sherlock that he liked to target but many other unfortunate souls, and no man could secretly co-ordinate so many criminal operations and still have time to go buy Westwood suits. So, Sherlock was throwing himself into the near impossible task of attempting to find out who this potential new nemesis could be.

Whole days would pass when Sherlock would simply lounge motionless on the sofa, legs stretched out and his hands firmly planted in the mass of curls engulfing his head, silently pondering his predicament. At first, I wasn't really sure how to react to this, so I simply tried to get on with my own life, often finding myself sat opposite him in an armchair searching for potential jobs in the newspaper. It was nearly September, the beginning of term-time even for home-schooled pupils, and I needed to take advantage of this and find myself a job, as unfortunately, the little money that used to comprise my savings had been spent on innumerable Chinese takeaways (which Sherlock and John always seemed somewhat reluctant to order. I gathered they had once had an unfortunate experience with a Chinese takeaway service that led to an ex-girlfriend of John's being poised in front of a loaded bow and arrow.). Often, I would feel Sherlock's curious gaze resting on me, but he would quickly look away when my own eyes rose to meet his. It was as if he wanted my help in some way, but wasn't sure how to ask.

John would come to the flat each evening and ask Sherlock if he'd made any progress in figuring out who Moriarty's ally could have been. "John," Sherlock would groan, "I'm starting to think I've over thought this. Maybe Moriarty did work alone. Maybe I'm not in any danger!" But instead of giving up and greeting the world outside 221B Baker Street with open arms, Sherlock would just sit there, rubbing his chin and retreating to his mind palace, while John and I discussed what exact blend of tea Mrs Hudson had treated us to today, and how he was getting on at the surgery.

On one particularly mundane Monday, Sherlock snapped. After at least three hours of sitting motionless on his sofa, he darted up with the speed and force of a cannon and yelled, "DAMN HIM!" Seeing me flinch at this unexpected bout of noise and fury, he added, "I apologise for the outburst, but I fail to see how Moriarty could have had another man. Perhaps this is one last conundrum that the man himself left behind to torture me!" He let his head rest in his hands. "Mycroft was quite clear," Sherlock explained, "In telling me that I should keep my head down, as I still had enemies out there. But who are these enemies, I ask? The invisible man and his minions? Damn Mycroft," he growled, "He probably made it up to spite me... And anyway, any former enemy of mine would probably be miles away by now!"

"Well," I considered, "That wouldn't make any sense. Surely anybody that's got it in for you would want to be close enough to observe you. You know what they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer..."

"Yes," Sherlock interjected, "But that's assuming that they know I'm alive and here. The only people that know that I'm not in that grave down the road are you, John and Mrs Hudson, and I trust that you wouldn't betray my whereabouts to anyone." He shot me a sharp look. "Would you?"

His piercing blue eyes resting almost viciously on my face rendered me speechless, leaving me only capable of defending myself with a slight shake of the head. His expression immediately retreated into his previous concerned frown, then softened slightly as he murmured, "I know you wouldn't. I trust you now. I don't often make friends, but when I do..." He trailed off, his eyes widened, and he seemed almost perplexed at what he had just said, before gruffly adding, "John should be here soon. I hope he brings some milk."

Eyebrows raised, I returned to the newspaper I was holding in my hands while Sherlock lazily rose from his seat and began to stroll around the room. Eventually, he reached the window, flicked a glance in the direction of the street, then leapt back as if struck, knocking over countless stacks of paper that were left fluttering in his wake. Instinctively, I shot up and over to join him. Extending one of his long fingers in a flowing motion of fear, he pointed to a man stood across the road and simply whispered, "Look."

He need not have pointed; he need not have instructed me to look. Blaring out from the middle of the street, held by a greatly obscured man wrapped tightly in a tan raincoat and a black scarf, there was a sign, its message emblazoned across in imposing letters illuminated in all shades of red, blue, purple and pink.

_Hello, Mr Holmes._

I gasped and turned to the man now stood grimly beside me. "They know."

He nodded."Whoever 'they' are."

I looked back at the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bearer of the sign that signalled danger in our midst, but only the mundane scene of rush-hour London greeted me. Our nemesis had escaped; but their five, maybe ten second appearance had done enough to strike fear into my heart. Only one thought could form in my mind.

_The game is on._


	6. Chapter 6

_**Hi guys... I'm ba-ack! Sorry for the 8 month hiatus, I had a lot of stuff going on that meant I couldn't write, but I'm here now and ready to continue this story! I hope you like this chapter, and any reviews would be much appreciated! Love you all!**_

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><p>That was it. The secret was out. Someone knew that Sherlock had returned from the dead, someone unknown to us and as slippery as the shadows that he seemed to lurk in, somebody that we needed to fear. But what could we do? Trying to trace the mysterious man who had set our hearts racing with those three simple words was like trying to catch smoke with our bare hands. So John went to the surgery and did his job, I continued my search for employment, and Sherlock spent all of his hours sat perched by the window with his chin resting on his knees, as tense as a cat preparing to pounce.<p>

One day in early September, as I stepped through the door of the flat while brushing away the first crumpled leaves of the year that had settled in my hair, I was greeted by an ecstatic John grabbing me by the shoulders.

"Guess what?!" he cried, looking almost as happy as he had when he'd found one of his old patterned jumpers lurking in the cupboards of 221B. "I've found you a job!"

"Really? Oh, John!" I pulled him into a hug, trying not to squeal with uncontrollable joy. "Thank you! Thank you so much! When do I start?"

"Hey," he laughed, drawing away from me with a grin, "I haven't even told you who it's for yet, or where it is!" He paused for a moment, before continuing upon seeing my quizzical look. "It's for my boss, Dr Moran- he has an eight year old son who needs tutoring. A lovely boy, I've met him a few times, but..." John's face darkened with sympathy, "Well, Sebastian is his only parent. And little Jimmy sometimes gets down about that. So, you'd have to be a bit... sensitive."

"I'm sure I can manage that." Smiling slightly, I added, "Thanks again John. I really appreciate this!"

Blushing slightly, John patted me on the shoulder, before smiling and replying, "Think nothing of it. You helped to reunite me with that old git in there." He nodded his head towards the lounge. "I owe you one!"

"JOHN!" At that exact moment, a bellowing could be heard, as Sherlock shouted, "I NEED MORE NEWSPAPERS! GO TO THE ARCHIVES FOR ME!" The sound of a gunshot rang out followed by the sound of what I'm fairly sure was the lounge wall cracking, before Sherlock added, "I'M BORED!"

John shook his head with a smile, yelled "RIGHT YOU ARE!", and began to put on his coat.

"What does he need old newspapers for?" I enquired, laughing slightly.

John sighed. "He's looking at all of the pictures of Moriarty's trial to see if there are any shady looking mates of his that appear more than once." Rolling his eyes, he continued, "He won't stop until he's seen every last cutting from every last newspaper..." Making his way towards the door, he added, "Oh, I've left Sebastian's phone number on the coffee table. You'd best ring him up and accept that job!" He winked, before rushing out of the door into the cool autumn afternoon.

Walking into the living room- and trying to ignore the smoking bullet hole that now decorated the left wall- I swiftly picked up the small scrap of paper on the coffee table and began to punch the number into the house phone. As the dialtone rang, I glanced to look at Sherlock, who seemed to be staring at me with a very intent eye. However, when I caught his gaze he immediately turned away and looked out of the window at the bustling street below.

After a few rings, the phone finally connected, and a soft male voice with a slight Irish twang answered. "Dr Sebastian Moran, how can I be of service?"

A brief minute's chatter followed, in which I explained who I was- until then, I was only known to the doctor as "John's friend"- and hastily accepted the doctor's offer of tutoring his son. The boy, it seemed, had a slight deficiency when it came to history- my specialist subject- and required extra tuition for three two-hour sessions per week. After explaining this to me, Dr Moran chuckled and added, "Now, surely you must be wondering about your pay? Surely it shouldn't always have to be John's turn to buy the milk!" He roared with laughter. "Well," he continued, not allowing room for a reply on my part, "I was thinking of offering you £1000 per week, if you are punctual and satisfy all of Jimmy's educational needs. Is that reasonable?"

The phone clattered to the floor, catching the coffee table on the way down. £1000 per week? Was this man made of money? Even on a doctor's salary it seemed ridiculous, unless he was running some kind of black market from inside his surgery... It was London, after all...

"Hello?" Dr Moran's voice now echoed around the lounge- great, it looked like my skilful dropping of the phone had caused it to switch to speakerphone mode. Sherlock shot me a disdainful, "I-don't-want-to-hear-your-feeble-conversation" look, and I tried to look apologetic as I picked the phone up and fumbled around with the speakerphone button. Unfortunately for both the phone and for Sherlock's sanity, the button appeared to be broken. Great.

"Y-y-yes, Dr Moran," I stammered, "I'm here... I just had a slight shock, that's all... b-bird flew into the window... I dropped the phone... But yes, that pay arrangement seems, well, brilliant!" I laughed shakily.

"Excellent! Perhaps you can use it to buy a new phone... I assume your present one is worse for wear after its great fall? Most things tend to be..." He laughed, but this time it had a strange darkness to it.

"Yes, actually, the speakerphone is now permanently on thanks to a stuck button!" Not that he would really want to know that, but I figured some small-talk would be beneficial since this man was effectively now my boss.

"Oh dear! A good thing John's gone out so he doesn't have to hear our silly little conversation!" Wait, how did he know that John was out? Unless he had walked past the surgery on the way to the archives. Yes, that had to be it. "Unless you have any other friends around? A lovely young lady like you surely must?"

I glanced at Sherlock and he raised his eyebrow, reminding me with a piercing look that his presence must go undetected. "No, I'm- I'm quite alone..."

"That's a shame, you really must broaden your circle of friends! Having one is just not enough... Just look at what happened to John after that terrible, terrible episode with that Mr Holmes! Who'd have thought he was a fraud? It still baffles me three years on..." There was a pause, during which I could hear the faint sound of Sherlock grinding his teeth together. I guess he didn't like to be reminded of the dark events of the past. "Anyway," Dr Moran added, "I think it would be good if you could come over on Monday night, to meet Jimmy before you start tutoring him. He's a good boy, but, well, after what happened..." He sighed. "He can be a bit withdrawn!"

"I'm sure I can deal with it, Mr Moran... As long as he's willing to learn!" I smiled.

Dr Moran laughed. "Well, my dear, that can vary from day to day! Some days he's motivated and ready to go, others he barely does anything and just wants to lie in bed!" There was another pause, before he added, "He's just so-o-o-o-o changeable!"

There was a crash as Sherlock sprang to his feet, his eyes frantic and his mouth a perfect "O" of shock. He mimed, "_Get off the phone!_", so I quickly made my goodbyes after writing down the Morans' address and what time I should arrive on Monday. I'd never seen Sherlock like this before; he seemed possessed, wild, and entirely insane. Shaking, he pointed a finger at the phone, before murmuring, "He said that. Moriarty. The first time we met, he said that, he said those exact words- he was just_ so-o-o-o-o changeable_!" He spat the last two words with a vengeance, carefully mimicking Moran's accent.

I stood blinking at Sherlock for a few moments, before bursting into laughter. "But Sherlock!" I shook my head. "Surely you can't think Dr Moran is connected to Moriarty? He's John's boss for gods' sake, they're good friends! Just because he spoke a few simple words doesn't make him evil!"

For one moment, I thought Sherlock was going to explode; the anger in his face was unmistakable. But suddenly, he became calm, as if he had flicked some internal switch that instantly flipped his mood. "Yes," he said slowly, "I'm sure you're right. I'm just being paranoid..." He walked slowly back to his chair. "But when you go and see him, take mental notes of everything that happens. Report them back to me as soon as you return." He curled back into a ball, chin on knees, and assumed a vacant expression that marked his return to his mind palace.

Shaking my head, I made my way to the kitchen to pour myself a celebratory brandy. I had a job! A well-paid job! Nothing could take away my joy about that, not even Sherlock's paranoid ramblings. Things were finally looking up.

Or so I thought.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hi guys, it's me again! Once again it's taken me AGES to upload, but I've had really important exams to study for which are now almost over! I can finally carry on with this story again! Hope you like this chapter, and please feel free to leave a review, they always make me smile!**

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><p>"So you'll let me know if anything out of the ordinary happens? You'll ring me immediately?" Sherlock stood looming over me with a sharp look in his eye. It was Monday, and almost time for me to go and meet Dr Moran; I'd donned my smartest trousers paired with a cream blouse that Mrs Hudson had picked out for me, and was all ready to leave, if it wasn't for the lean frame of Sherlock that was blocking my exit. He had been jumpy all morning, constantly checking that I had my phone on me and reminding me that I didn't have to take this job if I didn't want to, but I had tried to ignore what I saw as his clearly unfounded fears. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was worried for me; but why would a high functioning sociopath feel any kind of care for his decidedly plain flatmate? I dismissed these thoughts as wishful thinking, and realised that the only reason Sherlock was interested in my meeting with Dr Moran this morning was because of his potential link to Moriarty. I still thought that the mere thought of such a connection was ridiculous; Sebastian had seemed perfectly friendly on the phone to me and seemed to be a generally nice man, based on John's descriptions of him. No, I thought to myself, I'm going to be fine; and by the end of the day, I'll have a job! Could life get much better?<p>

"Sherlock," I replied, " I promise you, if anybody pulls a gun on me, threatens me in any way or tries to coerce me into jumping off a hospital, you will be the first to know." I rolled my eyes. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to leave now please? I really don't want to be late meeting the man who could potentially be giving me a job…" I went to shove past the irritatingly stubborn detective, but in a whirl of movement be grabbed me and spun me around until our faces were mere inches apart. One hand on my shoulder, the other on my wrist, and with those piercing blue eyes burning into mine, he whispered, "Stay safe. Please," before sweeping back into the lounge, leaving my pulse racing and all of my thoughts scrambled. His touch had been electric, and he had broken his usual wall of indifference, all for me. Could he…? Could we…? No. Shaking my head at the simple stupidity of me even considering the possibility of him feeling for me what I felt towards him, I rushed out into the cool morning air and slammed shut the door of Baker Street behind me.

I walked briskly, aware that the sky was becoming increasingly dark; a storm was brewing. A low rumble of thunder sounded as I finally reached Dr Moran's home, and as I stood in the porch of his rather grand house, I saw a flash of lightning out of the corner of my eye. On arrival at Sebastian's it became immediately obvious to me that the £1000 per week that he had promised to pay me was probably worth about the same as 10p was to me. The man was clearly filthy rich; his house was whitewashed, pristinely immaculate, and even the porch was made up of stone plinths and a marble flooring. Marble flooring! For the first time, I felt some trepidation about working for this man; surely he- and his child, for that matter- would look down on me as some kind of common peasant compared to their immense wealth! And where did he get the money for all of this? Sure, the pay for doctors could be considered generous, but still… This really was stretching it. The unwelcome thought that crime could have paid for Sebastian's abode briefly flashed through my mind; however, I soon dismissed it as being a product of Sherlock's ridiculous paranoia, and pressed my finger to the doorbell that was situated next to the grand oak front door.

Within seconds, the door was flung open, and a jolly-looking man of about 40 stood in front of me. He was thin, pale, and his features seemed quite strained; his eyes were thin and quite bloodshot, and he wore enough stubble to still look respectable seemed slightly dishevelled at the same time. However, all of this was paled into insignificance by his broad, toothy smile, which seemed permanently affixed to his face. "Well hello," Sebastian Moran boomed, as he took my hand and shook it vigourously. "This is the delightful young lady who will be tutoring my young Jimmy! Please, come in!"

After having my coat and shoes removed by a maid- yes, a maid!- I was led into an ornately furnished sitting room, decorated in varying shades of deep red. The walls were adorned with photo frames; some filled with photos of Sebastian, some of a young boy who I assumed was his son, and some left inexplicably empty. Perhaps there were some photos that were too personal, or perhaps too painful, for Dr Moran to show me… pictures of his dead partner, perhaps? John had told me that Sebastian's partner, also called Jimmy, had passed away a few years previously, and that Sebastian didn't like to talk about it much. He had thrown all of his energy into raising his son, who he and his partner had adopted when he was born, and had hidden the pain of his loss through his constantly cheerful façade. Suddenly, I understood why Sebastian was always so outrageously cheerful; he was trying to hide the pain eating away at him inside. Surveying him carefully, I marvelled his strength at being able to carry on living after losing someone so dear to him.

"Admiring my suit, I presume!" Sebastian laughed when he saw me shrewdly observing him. "It's Westwood… I have always had fine taste, as you can see from our-" He broke off and cleared his throat, a cloud of emotion passing over his features. "From my home. Now," he continued, gesturing towards a black leather sofa, "Shall we discuss the terms of your employment?"

It took an hour for us to determine the terms of my job; we had to go through all of the boring procedures of sorting out hours, pay and a contract that I could sign. However, soon the conversation turned from discussing my role as teacher to my pupil himself.

"Jimmy can sometimes be hard to deal with," Sebastian admitted, "But I think he'll warm to you quite quickly. He's still a bit traumatised about my partner's… passing." Sebastian closed his eyes, and when he opened them a moment later, they seemed misty with the threat of tears. "So please, treat him gently. He's a clever boy, takes after Jim!" He smiled. "He's upstairs in his bedroom if you want to go and meet him, third door on the right!"

Following Sebastian's instructions, I made my way to the third door on the right, and sure enough, as I pushed open the door I saw a small boy sat cross legged on the wooden floor. However, this was not a small boy's room; the bed was four-poster and swathed in navy-blue silk sheets that looked as if they had not been touched in years, there was a thick layer of dust covering all of the furniture, and- was that a newspaper cutting showing Sherlock blu-tacked to the wall? It was, and it was not alone; there was a collage of newspaper articles, online reports, and photos plastered in a huge group, proclaiming headlines such as "Amateur detective to be called as expert witness", "Moriarty walks free", and finally, "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS!"

"Can I go back to my own room yet?"

The boy's quiet voice broke through the veil of shock that had descended over me.

"This… this isn't your room?" I shakily began to walk towards my future pupil. "I'm your new teacher, by the way! I hope we can be friends!" I extended my hand towards the child and he shook it, but with a puzzled look on his face.

"I already have teachers," he said, "I go to a school down the road. Why does daddy think I need more?" The boy seemed quite upset.

"He said you weren't doing as well in history." I smiled reassuringly. "I think I can help you with that."

"But… I always get good marks in history!" Suddenly, the boy's confusion transformed into wide-eyed fear. "Wait, you're not the Sherlock Holmes lady are you? If you are, I think you should go…" The boy's voice dropped to a whisper. "Daddy always scares me when he talks about Sherlock Holmes…"

"The Sherl- Jimmy, what are you talking about?" An uneasy feeling was beginning to creep into my mind. Had Sherlock been right about Moran? Was he more sinister than he seemed?

"Sometimes I hear Daddy talking about tricking a lady who knows Sherlock Holmes… He talks about how other Daddy dying was Sherlock Holmes' fault, and how he was going to use a lady to get revenge on Sherlock… But it always sounds funny to me, because I thought Sherlock Holmes was dead?" The boy stood up, and pointed to the wall. "Whenever Daddy and his friends talk about it, he always comes here afterwards and talks about things, silly things like guns and hurting people and something called 'revenge'… this used to be him and other Daddy's bedroom, before other Daddy died…" Jimmy started to cry. "I hope nobody else has to die…"

"Don't be silly, nobody's going to die, Jimmy…" I laughed shakily. "Now, would you be able to be quiet for a moment while I make a phone call?"

The boy nodded, and I swiftly grabbed my phone from my pocket and began to dial Sherlock's number. After just one ring, he picked up, and immediately demanded, "What's wrong?"

"Sherlock…" Being careful to whisper, I shakily told him, "You were right about Moran. I think… I think he's the one who knows you're alive, and I think he wants revenge for Moriarty's death… They were together, and now Moran's broken hearted, and I think he's going to-"

Without warning, my phone was grabbed from my hand and thrown to the floor, and on hearing a sickening crunch of foot against plastic, I knew it wouldn't be serving me for any longer.

"You can go back to your room now, Jimmy," Moran said sweetly, "You've been a very good boy. On you go…"

"But…" The boy's expression was full of terror. "You won't hurt this lady, will you, Daddy? I don't want you to hurt anyone else-"

"Just go to your room, Jimmy. Your Nanny's going to drive you to your Auntie Jane's soon. I have some very important work to do."

The boy reluctantly slunk away, and it was just Moran and I left in the eerie semi-shrine to Sherlock and Moriarty.

"Like what I've done with the place?" Moran surveyed the wall of articles with the hint of a smile on his face. "Jim started it off, but I carried on adding articles after…" He slowly tore off the article that screamed "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS" and threw it on the ground, while I watched, transfixed with terror. "I guess this can't stay there any more… I can't believe it! Sherlock Holmes really is alive and well!" A twisted smile slowly crept over his face. "Not for long… and the same can be said for you, I'm afraid! I assume he'll come here to try and save you, of course, but I'll be waiting. Now…" He pulled a cloth from his pocket. "Time to get you ready for his arrival…" He advanced towards me, and while I tried to flee, he grabbed me and preventing me from going anywhere; unfortunately, speed had never been one of my strong points. He pressed the cloth over my mouth and within seconds everything went dark, and I slumped to the ground.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N- Here we go, the penultimate chapter to this story! Will our heroine survive? And what will become of the great Sherlock Holmes? Well, dear reader, you'll have to wait and see...**

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><p>"Pathetic little thing. I can't believe she fell for it… And now, she's going to die for her stupidity…"<p>

Moran's voice pierced through the haze that clouded my mind, and I heard his footsteps pacing some distance away. What…? Where….?

"He's here? Oh, fantastic! Send him this way"

A pause. The sound of a second pair of feet walking down a carpeted corridor.

"Mr Moran. How pleasant it is to finally meet you…"

Sherlock? That was his voice… As I slowly began to wake up from my chloroform-induced stupor, I finally began to take in my situation. I was tied to a chair, bound and gagged, and apparently seemed to be in some kind of cellar. It was dark, with the only sliver of light coming from the slightly ajar door. I could hear two sets of footsteps slowly advancing towards the room… Moran's and Sherlock's, I guessed. A wave of guilt consumed me; Sherlock had come here, to a place where he would undoubtedly die at the hands of a maniac, all because of me. I had dismissed his suspicions about Moran's true identity as mere paranoia, and now not only was I going to pay the price, but so was this man, the man who I... I...

The man who I loved. There, I had finally admitted it to myself. Sherlock Holmes, the man who could flip from charming genius to petulant child quicker than you can say "It's your turn to buy the milk". Sherlock Holmes, all curly hair, half-smiles and the occasional lingering look. Sherlock Holmes, who, despite his status as a high-functioning sociopath and all-round pain in the arse, had managed to steal my heart. Not that he would ever have guessed it of course. For all of his breathtaking deductions, this was one conclusion that he hadn't managed to reach. Or at least, if he had, he'd kept his findings to himself, something which Sherlock did approximately never.

The sudden flick of a light switch blinded me out of my wandering thoughts. Sure enough, there was Moran, gun in hand and sadistic smile plastered to his face, and next to him was Sherlock. He was trying to keep his cool; he stood with his arms behind his back, slowly rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. However, as his gaze met mine, those deep blue eyes betrayed him; they were wide with horror, fear, and... and something else. Affection? Could it be...? No. No, this was not what I needed to be considering at this moment, when a aggravated madman was stood just feet away from me with a pistol and a wish for death, our deaths. I tried to give Sherlock a small smile, perhaps as some kind or reassurance or as an apology for getting us into this situation, but it came out as more of a grimace. The ropes dug into my wrists and ankles, and suddenly, Moran's rough hand was grasping my chin and pulling it upwards to face him.

"Pretty little thing, aren't you? I'd have gotten ideas about you, if you weren't so pally with _him." _He jerked his head towards Sherlock, whose jaw had tightened and whose eyes were now coldly fixed on his nemesis. "Shame..." I glared up at this monster of a man, and he smiled tauntingly back at me. Letting go of me, he took a few steps backwards, looked from Sherlock to me, then clicked a bullet into the firing chamber.

"I'll make this quick. I can occasionally be merciful."

As Moran raised his arm and aimed at my forehead, I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for my fate. However, Sherlock's voice pierced the silence.

"Mr Moran," he drawled, "since it seems inevitable that my companion and I are both going to die in this somewhat dreary cellar, I feel you owe us an explanation. Who exactly are you? And how did you come to be in league with Moriarty?"

Moran rolled his eyes. "You're seriously going to make me do the whole "villain-explains-all" thing? Oh, how boring..." He sighed. "Fine, since I'm not going to let you leave this room alive, I might as well enlighten you on the events that ruined my life and force me to end yours..."

Suddenly overcome with emotion, Moran cleared his throat and squeezed his eyes shut to prevent any tears from flowing. "Jim Moriarty... he... he was..." He swallowed. "Jim saved me. Ten years ago, I was homeless, living on the streets of London after being disowned by my parents because of my... my sexual preferences." Despite everything, I felt a pang of sympathy for this man; it seemed that his life had been far from easy. "One day, Jim spotted me, and, well... he took a liking to me. He gave me the money I needed to sort my life out, he got me a job, he gave me a home, a home... with him. One thing led to another, and eventually, we... we fell in love."

Sherlock's eyes were wide with surprise, something very rare, but then again, the dynamics of human emotions and relationships had always escaped him.

"We bought this house, we lived together as partners, and eventually we adopted young Jimmy." Despite everything, Moran managed to crack a small, genuine smile. Then, his face darkened once again. "I always knew that Jim's line of work was risky to say the least. You can't be a consulting criminal without making a few enemies. However... I thought we'd make it. I thought that we could go on forever, dodging danger, living our perfect life as the perfect little family." At this, he glared at Sherlock with ice in his eyes. "But I didn't count on you, Mr Holmes."

"Yes." Sherlock looked Moran straight in the eyes as, with uncharacteristic softness, he murmured, "I'm sorry for your loss. But, you must understand, _I didn't force Moriarty to pull that trigger_. It was just an... unfortunate consequence."

"BUT YOU PLAYED THE GAME, SHERLOCK," Moran roared, letting go of all composure as tears ran down his face. "You baited him, you played him, and Jim ended up DEAD. DEAD, JUST LIKE YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN!" Breathing heavily, hands shaking, he added, "Like you will be soon. You ruined my life, you killed the one person who I have ever and could ever love, and you left my child without a father. Your day has come, Mr Holmes. No coming back from the dead this ti-"

Moran was interrupted by the sound of splintering wood; it sounded distinctly like a door being smashed off of its hinges. Suddenly, Sherlock's face erupted into a huge smirk. "I won't have to. Not today."

Confusion filled my mind as his words sunk in... what trick did he have up his sleeve this time? Then, a stampede of feet began to sound above us, getting closer and closer, paired with yells of "POLICE!". In the blink of an eye, before he could even raise his gun, Moran tumbled to the floor after being rugby tackled by no less than three rather burly policeman. His gun skidded across the floor, safely out of reach of its owner, and for the first time since I awoke I could breathe a deep sigh of relief. We were safe!

After surveying the chaotic scene with barely concealed glee, Sherlock turned his attention to me and hurried over, removing the cloth that gagged me before turning his hands to the ropes that kept me prisoner.

"Sherlock..." I began to smile, tears forming in my eyes. "How did you... how did you do this?"

He smiled, his eyes glowing with pride and joy. "As soon as I received your phone call , I knew something was amiss. I decided that the best course of action would be to hand myself in to Moran and distract him while John called the police." He glanced around at the veritable swarm of officers all crowded into this tiny cellar. "I knew they'd send the full team over, I have an old friend in the Met and this is his division..." Finally free of the ropes, I bounded upwards and into Sherlock's arms, whispering "Thank you" in his ear as I threw my arms around his neck. At first, the great detective froze like an iceberg, his arms stiff at his sides and his back rigid; then, after a few seconds, I felt him relax as he wrapped his arms around me in a tentative embrace. When he pulled away, he sheepishly muttered, "I apologise, tactile relationships are not exactly my area... But..." He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly becoming gruff. "I can work on this particular skill, if you'd like."

I smiled up at him. "I can help you, if you'd like." Grinning back at me, Sherlock began to reply, before being abruptly interrupted with an incredulous shout of his name.

"SHERLOCK?!"

The owner of the very confused-sounding voice was a middle-aged man stood in the doorway to the cellar, with silver hair, tan skin and an expression of pure disbelief. Sherlock turned his grin to this poor, befuddled figure. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Long time no see..."

Scratching his head, Lestrade could only stutter "But... but... you... building... fell... DEAD!" Wryly smiling, Sherlock chuckled as he replied, "And you call yourself a Detective..."

As Lestrade continued to attempt to process the appearance of a dead man in Moran's cellar, another, taller figure appeared behind him, his face framed by a mop of long, dark hair. On spotting Sherlock, he promptly ran screaming from the room, yelling "GHOST! GHOST IN THE CELLAR! RUN FOR IT, IT'S SHERLOCK'S GHOST!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a bored expression forming in his features. "Anderson...He always was a complete moron..." I sniggered, and Sherlock once again relaxed into a smile. "He'll be alright eventually..."

"Yes," I agreed. "And so will we."

We both watched as Moran, having given up attempting to fight off the pack of policeman that surrounded him, was led handcuffed from the room.

Cautiously, slowly, Sherlock took my hand. "Yes," he replied, "We will."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello, all! So here it is: the last chapter of this fic! It's been a pleasure to write and I hope you've all enjoyed reading it! :) Special shout out to Gwilwillith … you've been my top reviewer and it's meant a lot! Also, I dedicate this chapter to the amazing Maddy (Rubiie) who is essentially my John.**

**Anyway, here it is! Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p>It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon, and John, Sherlock and I were sat in the living room of Baker Street, comfortably provided for with tea and cakes from Mrs Hudson. The events of the previous day were still swimming around in our minds; Moran had revealed his true colours, Sherlock had been right, and I had blindly ignored him. I didn't know whether to be embarrassed for my stupidity or just relieved that Sherlock had been there to save the day, something which did seem to be his forte.<p>

"I still can't believe it!" John shook his head, an incredulous expression on his face. "Sebastian... In league with Moriarty? He always seemed such a nice guy..."

"Yes John, there's nothing nicer than a man who ties an innocent woman up in a cellar and runs around threatening to shoot people dead..." Despite his blatant sarcasm, Sherlock grinned at his blogger. "Such a shame we couldn't invite him over for tea afterwards!"

John attempted to glare over at the consulting detective, but before long his relaxed into a smile and he began to laugh. "Yeah... I think the whole attempted murder thing might just prove that Moran's not as squeaky clean as he seemed! I wonder what'll happen to him..."

"A considerable jail sentence, hopefully," Sherlock replied. "I don't think the court will be lenient, what with his deep connections to Moriarty..."

"But what about little Jimmy?" I exclaimed. "Where will he go? Both of his parents gone, the poor thing..."

"It's ok," John said soothingly, "Someone at the surgery told me that Jimmy will be living with his aunt. It'll be difficult for him at first, but I'm sure he'll settle in eventually..."

"I hope so," I said, "He was such a polite little boy. It's just a shame that he had such a monster as a father... And he must have known what was going to happen to Sherlock and I..."

"Yeah... the poor kid." John's eyes were full of regret. "It's not just Jimmy who's had a rough time, though... I'm so sorry that you had to go through all of that! It's my fault for ever telling you about that 'job'..."

"John, don't worry about it!" I winked. "What's life without a bit of mortal danger every now and again?"

Sherlock stood up sharply, walked over to where I was sat, and placed a firm, protective hand on my shoulder. His gaze met mine, intense and all-consuming, as he said in a low voice, "If I get my way, you'll never be in that kind of danger again. I'll always be here to protect you."

The beautiful blue eyes that were boring into mine were incredibly distracting; the only reply I could was a mumbled "OK". Despite this, Sherlock's iron grip remained in place, and his out-of-character display of emotion continued. Still holding my gaze, he barked, "John, could you go to the shop and get me some milk please? I believe we're almost out..."

"But Sherlock, I thought Mrs Hudson got you some yester-"

"GET THE MILK, JOHN!"

At that, John seemed to catch on that Sherlock merely wanted rid of him and swiftly left the flat to have another argument with the self service checkout, mumbling something that sounded distinctly like "I don't even live here any more, should be going to meet Mary right now..."

Sherlock and I were alone. He finally broke our almost uncomfortably long eye contact, removed his hand from my arm, and strode over to look out of the window. After a short pause, he blurted out, "You must understand, I don't often engage in sentiment for others. Relationships are not... are not my area."

"Really?" This probably wasn't the best time for sarcasm, but if he was going to be so obvious, then really he was bringing it on himself. "I never would have guessed."

Seemingly ignoring me, Sherlock continued, "But then I met you. You, the complete stranger who I found sleeping in my flat one night, who has helped to reunite me with all of my former friends... who almost lost her life for me yesterday." He took a deep breath, and I rose and slowly began to walk towards him. When I stood only about a foot away from him, he turned to look me in the eye once more. "These feelings are new to me. In all my years, I have never felt romantic feelings for anyone, and I never thought I would. But for you... I could... perhaps..." He broke off, and his face furrowed into a confused expression. He clearly didn't know how to deal with these kind of situations; this was one area of knowledge in which the great Sherlock Holmes was lacking. So, deciding to take the initiative and to save his poor brain from trying to figure out what to do next, I closed the distance between us and pressed my lips to his.

I got the distinct impression that Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to react to my kiss; for a few seconds, he remained completely motionless with his arms hanging limply from his sides. However, some kind of animal instinct must have eventually kicked in, because before long he had his arms wrapped around me, I had my hands in that thick mop of curly hair, and he was kissing me back with a fervour that I don't think anyone would have expected a high-functioning sociopath to possess.

Eventually, we broke apart, and Sherlock gazed around the room in wonder. "Fascinating... Perhaps physical contact is not as abhorrent as I once thought..." He looked so genuinely amazed that I couldn't help but burst out laughing, and Sherlock frowned down at me. "What is so amusing?"

Still giggling, I replied, "Nothing," before pulling him into a tight embrace. "I'm just... I'm just so glad I met you."

Burrowing his face into my neck, he whispered, "As am I". In all my life, I had never felt as content and peaceful as I had in that moment; it was just me and Sherlock, together at last...

But then, in a flurry of woollen cardigans and permed hair, Mrs Hudson burst into the room. After looking briefly confused at the sight of Sherlock engaging in physical contact with another human being, her panicked expression set back in as she breathlessly exclaimed "Sherlock! The window! Look!"

Sherlock rushed over to the window, and I watched he went from being shocked and excited to being mildly annoyed in the space of about five seconds. "Oh, no..." He sighed. "I'd hoped for maybe just a few more weeks of anonymity..."

"Wait, wha-" I ran over to where he was stood, and he pointed down to the street below us. Not a single inch of pavement was visible; it was all covered by a gaggle of reporters, television camera crews and newspaper journalists. Their cries slowly became audible as the clamour rose; "Mr Holmes! Can we have word on how you faked your own death? Why did you return? Are you really a 'fake' genius?"

I turned to the man himself. "Are you going to go out there?" I took his hand reassuringly.

Once again, he sighed. "I guess I'm going to have to... I can't hide forever." He glanced back down at the crowd below us. "It's time to face the music, as it were..."

I smiled at him. "We can face it together, if you want."

He smiled back, before his face erupted into a full-blown grin and he turned around to face our almost-housekeeper, who was stood waiting for Sherlock's instructions.

"Mrs Hudson," he drawled, "I think you need to fetch the deerstalker..."


End file.
